The Sociopath Next Door
by SphinxyWilliams14
Summary: Heather Walters is a very mysterious young woman, who happens to have moved in next door to the famous Sherlock Holmes. But with John gone, Sherlock decides to drag Heather into his crazy world of crimes, cases and cringe worthy conversations, but could there be something more?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N**

**Hey there!**

**Okay, so this is my first Sherlock Fanfiction, so don't judge me if it's awful. Well, actually, you can judge a little but you know.**

**Anyway, I'll shut up now.**

**On with the story!**

Chapter 1

I close the door and turn the key until it clicks, before letting out a sigh. I've just moved into 222B, and I'm already regretting the decision. Yes, I have just moved in next door to the socially inept, sociopath detective, Sherlock Holmes. I am sort of wishing I hadn't though, he seems intent on making as much noise as possible, as often as possible. Literally.

I drop my keys in the decorative blue glass bowl, and shrug off my jacket. Once that's hung up, I make my way into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Just as I'm about to place the kettle on the stove however, there's a knock on the door. I sigh and put the kettle down on the marble worktop, before making my way back over to the door. I unlock it, but rest my hand on my decorative tribal knife (A gift from my great grandfather) and keep the chain on the door just in case. This place does have a bit of a reputation.

I have no need to worry though, because as I peer through the gap in the door, I see John standing there patiently. This, however, is only the case for about two seconds (1.8 to be precise), as his face is quickly replaced by that of his flatmate. I sigh as Sherlock peers in expectantly, and no sooner than I've taken the chain off, he barges in and starts looking over my belongings sceptically. Even in my heels, he stands a few inches taller than me. John follows him shortly, an apologetic look on his face.

"I'm sorry about this," He tells me, "It should only take a moment."

"Something for a case I presume," I half-ask, my eyes still on Sherlock as he lifts my glass wolf ornament from the coffee table. He inspects it closely, from its tail to its piercing ice blue eyes.

John smiles reassuringly and half shrugs as his flatmate continues his search.

"Tea?" I offer, more to John than Sherlock.

"Er, no thank you…"

"Heather. Heather Walters."

"Ah, Heather." John repeats, "Thank you for the offer, but I think we may be done."

He looks to Sherlock, who blatantly ignores him and continues to inspect the various objects around him.

"Well, if you're quite finished dismantling my living room, I'd rather like to have some time to myself."

This time he does look up. He places the vase of lilies back where they were prior to him picking them up and starts looking me up and down. Any other person would be slightly uncomfortable under his piercing gaze, but I stood there and waited for him to finish.

"Well?" I ask, my eyebrow raised, "Are you quite done checking me out yet?"

When he doesn't reply, I place my hands on my hips and stare back at him.

"Take a photograph, it'll last longer," I say with as much sass as I can muster. He looks up at my face and glares.

"Go on then," I tell him, "Assess me."

He grins wickedly before he decides to speak.

"Well, your attire suggests you work for some sort of newspaper, no wait, a novelist? Yes, definitely a novelist. You nails are done all except your right thumb and index finger, suggesting constant use, typing perhaps, meaning you're very dedicated to your work, or it could be stress, also work related. Your posture is like that of someone important, someone respectable, perhaps you are, or maybe you act this way around others. To impress. Your face isn't as easy to read. You blink a little too often, you're worried maybe. Scared of being found out? Ooh you are good at this. The bottom of your dress is slightly crumpled; perhaps it's been scrunched up because of stress, anxiety probably. Another work related thing I'm guessing, well, not guessing actually, I never guess. I just know. Did I miss anything out?" He finishes rather smugly, a small smirk playing on his lips.

But my grin is wider.

"Ooh, and here I was thinking you'd actually be able to suss me out. Firstly, I'm a poet, but yes I do write novels too, also, I am _not_ dedicated to my work; my thumb and forefinger have short nails because of my use of contacts, hence the blinking. I thought that would be the easiest thing for you to spot? As for the dress, I've been carrying a bag all day which has been rubbing against its hem, which is why it's slightly crumpled. My posture is only the way it is because if you hadn't already noticed, I'm wearing heels, which causes me to stand up straighter, slightly more aloof you may say. As for you, the cunning detective, they say you're a psychopath, but I'm thinking more along the lines of a sociopath? You've bags under your eyes, suggesting, obviously lack of sleep, meaning either you have trouble sleeping (which I doubt), _you_ are devoted to your work or, no, Sherlock Holmes! You fiend! You _enjoy_ your job, you use it as a thrill, rather than getting high, am I right? Ooh, now we're getting somewhere," He turns round almost uninterested, and begins examining the wolf once again, "Oh, is that a gun I see? Pocking out of your back pocket? I'm guessing it's for precautions? Just in case things turn sour at work," He puts the ornament down before turning back around, "Oh it is fun to watch those cogs in your brain turn, trying to figure me out. It won't work Sherlock. You can try as hard as you like, but you won't get anywhere, I promise you. Now, did _I_ miss anything out?"

He looks irked. I smile at his confused state and wait from his answer.

"My face," He murmurs, "What about my face?"

"Well, apart from the fact you are clearly shocked, the stubble, meaning you haven't shaved in a while, and the small amount of panic evident in those green eyes of yours, you seem pretty… bored, well, that's what you want the others to think isn't it?"

"No," He says, his voice barely a whisper, "Read it, like you did before."

I raise an eyebrow, "Well, it's pretty hard to see round all this shock, but," I let out a small barely audible gasp as his face shifts ever so slightly. I smile and my face softens in just the slightest way. I slowly make my way over to him.

"Admiration."

Only he can hear my voice. His lips tug up into the slightest of smiles and I wink at him.

"Well, it seems I've stunned the great Sherlock Holmes," I say, moving back to where I was originally standing, "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got business to attend to."

"Of course," John says, glaring at Sherlock who merely chuckles, "We should be going ourselves."

Just as Sherlock is walking out of the door, I realize something.

"This wasn't an inspection at all, was it?" He stops and smiles, but doesn't face me, "This was a test, to see what I would do, what I'm like. Wasn't it?"

He chuckles and finally turns to look at me.

"You sneak!" I tell him, "You little sneak!"

He turns and leaves, chuckling as he goes. I sigh and close the door before locking it. I lean against the peeling wood and let out another sigh. Once I've finally got a grip on what just happened, I make my way into the kitchen to continue where I left off, making tea. Once the kettle has boiled and a steaming mug is in my hands, I sit down and continue to work on my latest book. My nails clink on the mug as I set it down and start to type instead. I hear a series of bangs next door followed by a string of swear words from John. I sigh and try to drown out all sounds as I work. But then a particularly loud bang snaps me back into reality and I decide to go and see what's going on. Besides, it's only fair after my last encounter with the two of them. So I shut my laptop and make my way out of my apartment.

As I turn to make my way next door, my heart stops.

I freeze on the spot as a figure dressed completely in black, who was previously trying to get into Sherlock's apartment, turns and sees me. I realize then that I have around twenty seconds to work out how to stop him, or at least get past him.

I see he's holding a knife, a rather blunt knife, a butcher's knife? Yes, that's it, with a wooden handle, great for grip. There's also a small gun in his left pocket, the barrel protruding slightly, so I have no means of stopping him, only getting past him and warning those next door. I notice he's holding the knife up, not in warning, but in preparation for attack. I wish I'd brought my grandfather's knife with me, but I can't go back and get it now, if I turn, he'll stab me straight in the back, into my ribs, a fatal blow with survival out of the question. So I play out possible scenarios in my head. If I try to run past him, he'll stab me straight in the chest, killing me. If I try to attack him, he'll kill me as well. I've no weapon after all. I could try and stall, but from the way he's walking at me, knife raised, makes it seem impossible.

Ten seconds.

I quickly play through a couple more scenarios. Kick him? No. Distract him? No.

Five seconds.

He's so close now, so I do the only thing that comes to mind.

I kick straight upwards, knocking his knife out of his hand. It clatters to the floor and he swiftly bends to pick it up. But by this point, I'm already through 222B's front door and into the living room. There seems to be no-one around and I hear the run of water from the bathroom.

_Shower._

That's probably what the noise was, meaning it's John there, not his sociopath flatmate.

"Sherlock!" I scream, just as the mystery person appears in the doorway. I feel a table brush the back of my thighs and jump backwards over it.

Just then, Sherlock appears, looking rather annoyed, but when he sees the person in black, he swiftly pulls his gun from his pocket and points it at them. I finally see it's a man, and he reaches for his own gun, but I stop him. I leap forward and kick him straight in the face, before upper cutting his chin. He seems dazed at first, but then he throws a punch of his own, which of course I had anticipated, and dodge out of the way. What I didn't see though, was his foot, which briefly came into contact with my ankle, before I am falling over.

My head connects with the coffee table with an almighty _CRACK!_ and my vision starts to go black. Something warm slips over my face, but I manage to stay conscious. I watch as Sherlock darts over to the attacker and throws a punch to his head, knocking him out. He crumples to the floor, unconscious. Then, Sherlock makes his way over to where I lie, cowering against the coffee table. My eyes are wide with fear and the adrenalin coursing through my veins.

"It's okay Heather, it's over now."

I've never felt so vulnerable before, and yet, I've gone through worse than this. I'm shaking, quivering in fright.

"Calm down Heather."

His voice is oddly soothing and I find myself relaxing a little. I realize his hand is resting on my shoulder, in an attempt to reassure me. I take a deep breath and breathe out a sigh. I feel calmer now, and I stand (with the help of Sherlock). He supports me as I stay standing, and he only lets me go when he's sure I can hold my own weight.

"You're hurt," It's more of a statement as he looks to my head, "Come."

"I'm fine, honestly," I say, even though I know I'm not. Sherlock of course notices this and he leads me into the kitchen and sits me down. He then proceeds to pull medical supplies out of a cupboard and lays them out in front of me. He then uses an antiseptic wipe to clean the blood off my head, but luckily the wound is already starting to scab over.

It feels odd having him stand over me, alien almost, yet so natural at the same time. Once he's sure I'm okay, and all the blood is cleaned up, he lets me stand once more.

Still the sounds of the shower ring out from the bathroom and Sherlock stops still in thought.

"What are you going to do now?" I ask him, and he grins devilishly.

"That's the fun part."

I groan.

"Not a psychopath my arse!" I mutter. Sherlock however ignores me, so I sigh and excuse myself from the apartment, stepping over the body as I go.

Once I'm back in my apartment, I breathe out a sigh of relief. I pour my now cold cup of tea down the sink and then make my way into my bedroom before flopping down on my bed and letting the darkness consume me.

**A/N**

**Hi again!**

**So that was the first chapter, so don't forget to tell me what you think, like what could be added/removed/done and anything else like that.**

**Until next time!**

**Sphinxy**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N**

**Hey my lion headed Sphinxes!**

**So here's the second chapter as promised. Thanks to JaybiePepper who commented on my last chapter, and also to HermioneWP who inspired me to write this.  
**

**On with the story!**

Chapter 2

I wake the next morning to the sound of my alarm. I quickly switch it off and roll over.

Then I realize _why_ I'd set the alarm.

_Shit!_

I have a meeting with a very important publisher to discuss the publishing of my newest novel. I sigh and quickly drag myself out of bed before getting ready. Once I'm dressed, my hair's done and I've got enough make-up on to look presentable, I grab my bag and rush out of the door. I turn to head to the publishing offices and find myself running into a wall. Well, at least I thought it was a wall when I ran into it. It felt solid enough, but when I lift my head, I see not a patchwork of bricks, but a _person_.

Sherlock looks down at me, trying to look annoyed, but of course, I can see past this and see the amusement in his eyes. He raises an eyebrow as I take a step back.

"Oh, Sherlock," I say, straightening my blouse, "Sorry, I didn't see you there." He scoffs.

"I was coming to find you anyway," He says dismissively, "John's gone to see some old friends, or so he claims, so I need someone else to come with me to the crime scene."

"What?" I ask, as Sherlock begins to walk the other way.

"Come on!" He yells out in no general direction and I have no choice but to go rushing off after him.

"Sherlock, as much as I'd love to go to one of your 'crime scenes', I'm kind of busy right now. I've got a really important meeting in around ten minutes!"

"It'll have to wait!" He calls behind him as I stop to puzzle things over. Finally I sigh and rush after him once more. I whip out my phone and call the person I was supposed to meet. After a short re-schedule and countless apologies, I hang up and look up at Sherlock, who simply steers me to the edge of the road, where he hails a cab. He instructs the driver on where to go as I put my phone back in my bag.

We arrive at the scene of the crime not 15 minutes later and after a long awkward journey, I'm glad to get some fresh air. We step out of the cab and once Sherlock's given the driver the money, we head over to where Lestrade is stood waiting.

"Ah, Sherlock, and, oh, where's Watson today?"

"Absent," Sherlock informs him with a flick of his hand, "And he will be so for around a week."

"Oh, and this is…" He asks, but as Sherlock has no intention of telling him, I speak up.

"I'm Heather, Heather Walters. I've just moved in next to Sherlock, unfortunately." I say bitterly. Sherlock says nothing and continues with his rather bored façade.

Lestrade however, simply beckons us inside and I see that the 'crime scene' is nothing more than an average semi-detached house. The only difference is that there is yellow police line tape strung up across the front fence, and no open fence. We slip under the luminous tape and trudge almost in unison, across the tiny front garden. Once we reach the door, Sherlock lets me enter first, acting like he's a complete and utter gentleman, which I know for a fact isn't true. When inside, Lestrade leads us to what appears to be the living room of the house, where a body lays.

It's like nothing I've seen before, nothing I've seen on T.V could have prepared me for this bloody massacre.

I taste bile.

My head spins, but I quickly get a grip on things and take a proper look at the corpse. It's strewn across the floor, limbs bent at odd angles. Cuts and bruises blossom across the figure's exposed flesh and blood soaks their clothes. It's a man, I can tell that much, but there's something about his position that unsettles me. It's a clue, but I just can't work it out. Then I look again, and see something I didn't before. If a spear or long object is placed in his left hand, his position mirrors that of the Scorpio star sign. Also, a deep cut is located on his right forearm, perhaps where a tattoo once was. Then I see that the dots of blood on his face also depict the Scorpio constellation. That's probably why he has adorned many cuts over his body; the killer needed enough blood to finish the job. The bruises however, could suggest a fight, a struggle. The cut on his forearm, and the rest of the cuts for that matter, have clean edges, meaning a sharp edged knife was used to create them. His flesh is cut deep too, so it must have been a medium sized knife, not like a penknife, but not quite a sword, and it must have had a curved edge.

I look beside me and see Sherlock trying to make deductions too, but he appears to be struggling, unable to make sense of it all. Then a brief glint catches my eye and I turn to see shiny silver edge poking out from under the filthy, torn couch.

The knife.

I also notice that the gashes in the settee are fairly new, meaning they must have been from the murder.

Lestrade looks to us with a questioning look and I start to make more deductions.

"Well, either the killer or our victim is a Scorpio," I say and when Lestrade gives me a 'how do you know that' look I explain, "The position he's in is that of the star sign and so is the blood on his cheek. There must have been some kind of tattoo on his right forearm and the bruises suggest he put up a bit of a fight. The cuts were mostly for getting blood, but what killed him was probably the stab to the back which I'm sure you'll find when you flip the body over, but don't move him yet. I'll need a pair of gloves and around two minutes to give you any more info."

Sherlock finally looks at me, a little surprised at how I'd made sense of it so quickly.

"The only thing you missed," He says, "Is the blow to the head, which must have knocked him out while the killer worked. If there is a stab to the back like you suggested, then the killer must have put it there so as not to ruin his masterpiece."

Lesstrade gives a quick nod, and soon I find a pair of blue disposable gloves on my fingers. I straightaway move to the knife I spotted under the couch and pull it out carefully with delicate fingers. It's covered with blood and I hold it up for the rest of the crew to see. I also notice that a scorpion is engraved into the handle and almost smile to myself.

"There's another scorpion on this, more proof that our killer could be a Scorpio. I reckon that blood matches that of the victim, but by all means take it off to the lab for analysis," I tell them, and not five seconds later, the knife is taken away for examination. Soon enough, Sherlock and I are excused with a large stack of papers to look over for the case. Before we leave, Lestrade stops us.

"I can only assume you've already got some experience with these matters," Lestrade tells me, and I just shake my head.

"No?" He seems generally shocked, "Well, we'd be more than happy to have you continue your work with us, even when Watson returns."

"Thank you for the offer, but I think I'll go back to my writing if you don't mind."

"Well, that's a real shame," He says, generally disappointed, "I would have liked to have you on our team."

I smile and nod once, before Sherlock and I head away from the house, but rather than hailing a cab, Sherlock starts to walk down the road.

"Where are we going?" I ask, curious as to where he's taking me.

"Shush, I'm thinking."

Ah.

He's thinking over the case, half in his mind palace and half out, just enough to see where he's going. It's at least ten minutes before he sighs and looks at me.

"I still don't get it."

"What?" I ask.

"How you do it."

Oh.

He wasn't thinking over the case, he was wondering how I can hide from him. I sigh and look up at him.

"I've had a lot of practice," I tell him. A small smile plays on his lips when I say this.

"Enlighten me."

"Uh uh. Oh no, I'm not telling you that, you'll only use it against me."

He scowls at me and I grin widely.

"What am I thinking?" He asks.

"I'm not a telepath you know."

"But you knew yesterday," He states.

"I only read your expression," I tell him.

"Then read me again."

"Oh no mister, you're going to have to suss me out first," I tell him, an impish grin on my face.

"Game on."

**A/N**

**It's me again!**

**So that's the second chapter done, please tell me what you think. And don't forget to follow and favourite it if you think it's worthy!**

**Until next time!**

**Sphinxy**

**P.S**

**I don't know how long it will take for the next chapter to be uploaded, but I'll try to make it snappy!**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N**

**Hello my lion headed Sphinxes!**

**Okay so thanks to HermionieWP, JaybiePepper and shadow343434 who commented on the last chapter. **

**On with the story!**

**Sphinxy**

Chapter 3

After a short journey home, Sherlock bids me good day and heads into his apartment. I too head to my flat and once inside, I place the kettle on the stove. Not two seconds later though, my mobile rings with a new message.

_I've got more info. SH_

He has my phone number.

Of course he has my phone number. Sherlock Holmes has my phone number.

Crap.

I sigh and close my eyes, opening them only when I hear a new message appear on my phone. Another one from Sherlock.

_Come next door. Now. SH_

I groan before replying.

_No._

_Why not? SH_

_I'm busy._

_Liar. SH_

_How do you know? And how did you get my number anyway?_

_I have my ways. SH_

_Come next door. SH_

I sigh again, exasperated. I know I'm not going to win this, so I go and change into some jeans and a less business like blouse, before shoving my phone into my pocket and making my way outside. I turn right and soon I'm up the steps and on the front porch. Moments later Sherlock appears and lets me into his apartment. Once inside, I stand and wait for him to close (but not lock) the door. I stand, hands on hips, and wait for him to address me. Instead, he makes his way over to his table and continues to look through the stack of papers Lestrade had given us. I groan internally as he stands, back facing me, and ignores me completely. I know what this is. He's annoyed he didn't get his way earlier, also probably about the case. He continues to blank me until I give up and decide to go help him.

I wander over to where he's stood and peer over his shoulder. I see he's organised the info, but it looks wrong. Then I realise he's missed one vital fact. The killer used a knife, and the knife was found.

"Here," I say and move the image of the bloody knife into the centre, before I take his marker pen and circle the scorpion on its handle. Then I put the image of the body next to that, well at least I try to. Sherlock unfortunately has the same idea and as we both reach for the photo, our hands collide.

We both freeze.

Sherlock looks at our touching hands, as if he's puzzling things through. A blush creeps up my neck as we stay perfectly still. Then slowly, I move my hand away. But Sherlock stays there, his head cocked to one side, working things out, then he picks up the image, the quizzical look on his face replaced by a bored expression. He hands the photo to me and I circle it and put it with the knife, just as he hands me the image of the blood spatter on the victim's cheek. Once everything is grouped and annotated, Sherlock starts looking through the files, while I decide to make tea.

I head into the kitchen just as Sherlock speaks up.

"What are you doing?"

"Making tea," I tell him, "You want?" I grin, flashing him a cheeky smile, but he doesn't even look up.

"I take milk and sugar," Is all he says as he continues to flick through the papers. I sigh and go to put the kettle on the stove. I go through the cupboard until I find a glass jar of tea bags. I put them next to the stove and just as I'm about to turn round to find the tea cups, when an arm brushes past my waist. Two tea cups are placed in front of me, and I feel Sherlock's presence behind me. His breath fans down my neck, giving me chills. I feel his eyes bearing into the back of my head, watching me. There's a sharp intake of breath from me as he stands, unmoving, one hand on the mugs, ice blue eyes focused on me.

"You'll need these," He murmurs and my breath hitches again.

"Yes," I whisper, "I'll get the milk."

I go into the fridge and grab the milk bottle before turning to see Sherlock pouring the water and removing the tea bags. He opens the cupboard above hi and pulls another pot out.

"Sugar?" He asks, turning to face me.

I'm lost for words.

This is probably the most _human_ conversation we've had in the entire time we've known each other.

"Er, yes, please."

He raises an eyebrow and I make my way over to him with the milk. I move next to him and he stops so I can add a little milk in both cups. I put the milk away and see Sherlock stood, offering me a cup. I smile and take it from him, before we head back into the living room. The tea smells good, but I wait for Sherlock to take a sip of his before I take a sip of mine, just in case. He may have been nice to me but it seemed _too_ nice. It was not usually in Sherlock's nature to be nice. But the tea doesn't seem to have anything wrong with it, so I take a sip.

Once the papers are organised, I find myself sat on the settee next to Sherlock, finishing my tea. We sit in comfortable silence listening to the sounds around us. I finish my tea and suddenly Sherlock jumps up. I tense immediately, but to my shock, Sherlock simply takes my now empty cup from my hands and takes it out into the kitchen. He looks back briefly and chuckles a little, probably due to my current awe struck expression.

"Don't look so shocked," Sherlock says "I may be a Sociopath, but I'm still human."

My shocked expression becomes more noticeable at this and I hear Sherlock chuckle again. When he returns, Sherlock calls Lestrade and tells him what we've found. Then I head back next door. Sherlock texts me to say there's only one suspect who's Scorpio and he's been taken in for questioning. Until he's found guilty or not, Sherlock's been given some case to work through by himself. So I sigh and open my laptop, continuing my story. Soon I'm so lost in my own thoughts; I don't notice the thud next door, then the silence. When I finally realise, I close my laptop and stand up.

"Sherlock?" I call through the wall.

No reply.

But I make nothing of it and simply head off to bed. He'd probably just dropped something. I fall asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow.

~x~

I wake with a start, ready for an attack. But there's nothing there, all is quiet. It's around midnight and still pitch black. Then I remember the thud I'd heard next door earlier. I listen out for Sherlock, who's usually up until four in the morning, but I hear nothing.

There's just the deadly silence. Panic rises in my chest and I grab my dressing gown before I run to the door, grabbing my knife as I leave my apartment to head next door. I go inside and try to find the source of the noise I'd heard earlier, and even in the dark I see it. There's a flurry of papers on the floor as well as being scattered on the table. I look at them, puzzled, but then I see _him_.

Sherlock is lying motionless on the floor, eyes closed. I drop to my knees and quickly check his pulse. Finding it regular, I shake him to see if I can wake him up. Then I notice the bags under his eyes and realise he must have passed out from exhaustion. Only Sherlock would work until he drops, literally.

One eye cracks open and looks up at me. Then I see the blood spattered in his hair and realise he must have smashed his head on the table as he fell. I look up and sure enough I see a splash of crimson on the corner of the table.

"I need to check your head," I tell him and he gives me a feeble nod before leaning forwards slightly. I look and have to try not to gasp. The wound is quite deep, it'll need stitches for sure. I grimace as I see it's still bleeding. I move a little hair out of the way and Sherlock winces.

"I'll have to take you to the hospital," I tell him, but he shakes his head. I sigh. "You need stiches."

He just points to the cupboard in the kitchen with a shaky hand, and then at me. I sigh before agreeing.

"Okay, but you'll need to sit on one of the chairs so I can reach your head," I tell him and he nods. I help him stand, before leading him over to a chair. He sits obediently and I go to the cupboard to grab the first aid kit. I find the needle and string as well as an antiseptic wipe. I turn the light on and first wipe some of the blood away with the wipe. Sherlock winces.

"Sorry," I tell him, "This is going to hurt a little." Sherlock nods and I begin to stitch up the wound. I then wipe the blood off his face where it's run down off the wound. I make my way down from the forehead, lingering on his lips, died crimson by the gore.

"Thank you," He murmurs when I remove my hand. I nod and go to put the first aid kit back into the cupboard and the antiseptic wipe in the bin.

"You need rest," I tell Sherlock. Then I help him up and take him to his bedroom, where I help him into bed. I prop his head up with pillows to stop the wound causing him any pain, before slipping back out of the door. I sigh before I pick the papers off the floor and clean the blood from the table. Then I find a blanket and curl up on the settee before letting the darkness consume me.

**A/N**

**So what did you think? Please leave a comment and follow and favorite if you think this story's worthy!**

**Thanks**

**Sphinxy**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:**

**Hey guys!**

**Sorry I have't updated in a while, but here's the next chapter! **

**As I've kept you waiting let us make haste! On with the story!**

**;)**

**Sphinxy**

Chapter 4

Darkness.

All is dark where I stand, an endless night. The air is thick with tension, with fear. My heart is in my throat as I stand paralysed in the coal black abyss. I breathe in a shaky breath as I hear them.

Footsteps.

The dull thud of approaching feet, ricocheting through the infinite gloom, making my breath falter. My blood turns to ice in my veins, shattering like a thousand crystals. I wince each time the sound gets louder, my ears ringing with the endless noise. A low chuckle blows into my ears, it could be humorous, but to me it's like a feral snarl. A pair of hands appears in the shadows before me, clutching a belt, and I try to take a step back. But as I feel behind me I realize I'm trapped.

Sheer panic rises in my chest and bubbles up my throat…

I sit bolt upright on the sofa screaming my lungs out. I hear a rush of footsteps, but they are not like the ones in my nightmare. Instead they are urgent as they rush towards me. Suddenly the lights flash on, but still I sit there shocked, my hand clutching at my chest. As I gulp down air, I hear the footsteps approach again. I flinch as ice cold fingertips touch the skin on my shoulders – the strap of my top had obviously slipped down as I slept. Slowly, I look up and see Sherlock stood there, concern clear in his eyes, well, clear to me anyway. I've never seen his face so twisted in blind panic. He shakes my shoulders gently, almost bringing me back to reality, but my vision is still blurred around the edges. Then I realize my vision isn't blurred because of the shock of waking up too quickly.

A single shimmering tear slips down my cheek, a small preparation for the torrent that suddenly comes rushing from my eyes. I drop my head immediately, I don't want him to see; he's got enough on his mind already. I don't want to add to that with my petty little fears. As I bury my head in my hands, sobs rack my body, my hands trembling. I feel Sherlock move and I'm sure he's going to just leave me as a quivering mass, but to my surprise, he simply crouches in front of me, his hands still on my shoulders. I feel momentarily touched by this, but then the horror story I'd just experienced appears I my mind once more and the tears continue to flow.

Sherlock is patient though, he wait for me to finish crying before he goes out into the kitchen to put the kettle on. I quickly compose myself and sit up properly – when have I ever lost control like this?

Sherlock reappears moments later, two steaming mugs in his hands. He hands me one before settling on the sofa next to me. It may not be much, but to me, it means the world, especially coming from Sherlock whose usual method of relaxation is to leave them to it after throwing them a snarky comment. As I sit and drink my tea, my mind wanders to the case with the mangled body. It's not pleasant, I know, but it's better than what haunts my dreams each night, stalking me like a predator. I sip from my mug at first, but end up gulping it just to keep my mind occupied at the tingling burn at the back of my throat from drinking tea that's really too hot to drink.

Soon I've finished with my tea and Sherlock once again takes the cup from my hands and takes it out into the kitchen. Once he's done this, he simply retrieves the blanket that had fallen from the floor and drapes it over my lap before turning the light off and heading back to bed.

I squint into the blackness ahead, but this time, I'm not afraid.

~x~

Golden sunlight pours through the curtains when I awake the next morning. I yawn and lazily stretch out on the sofa, before slowly sitting up.

There's a rustle of papers behind me and I spin round, ready for an attack. But it's only Sherlock, sorting through case papers. I breathe a sigh of relief and straighten out of the defensive position I'd unconsciously sprung into. I hear a quiet chuckle from Sherlock as I straighten out my now crumpled blouse.

"Sleep well?" He asks, his usual mocking sarcasm dripping from his voice. I see nothing has changed then. He doesn't even look at me as he speaks, just continues sorting through various articles and documents. I almost sigh, but instead, I get up and make my way to the front door. I'm a little disappointed as Sherlock doesn't even notice me open the door and step outside, well, even if he does, he makes nothing of it. As I close the door, I see the sun is almost at its peak, meaning I've slept in longer that I should have. Great, just _great_. I quickly go into my apartment and rush into my bedroom. After a quick shower, I grab the closest thing out of my wardrobe (A pair of black jeans and a casual low cut white blouse), and quickly change into it.

Just as I'm about to leave the door, I notice something, glinting, out of the corner of my eye. I go over and see it's the necklace I'd been given long ago. I pick it up, its silvery wolf face gazing right back at me. It's quite a large pendant, it's shimmering blue orbs like crystals in a cave of glittering grey. I look at it thoughtfully before placing it at my neck, the cold metal biting into my bare skin.

Quickly fixing my neat half-updo, I pull the braid into a more comfortable position, before opening my front door and stepping out into the day.

Thin wispy clouds hag in the sky, like the froth of a great teal wave. A flock of birds, pigeons perhaps, soar across the blue above, before I notice the position of the sun. From the way it sits, nearly at its peak, it looks to be almost midday, which mean I overslept.

_Just wonderful_.

I heave a sigh before strolling next door, but upon opening the door, rather than the usual snap from my neighbour, I am greeted with a crisp white note, lying on the coffee table. I raise an eyebrow as I make my way over to it, not bothering to close the door behind me. The paper crackles under my fingertips as I lift it from its place on the glass.

It reads:

_Working on the case, if you so wish to join me, come to the last crime scene and Lestrade will meet you there – SH._

"And how on earth am I supposed to know where the last…"

Nest to the note I spy another sheet of paper, and on closer examination, I see it has the last address written on it, as well as a short set of directions. I should have known Sherlock would have planned ahead.

Taking both the note and the directions, I hurry back next door and grab my bag and my purse. Slipping on my sandal heels, I grab my keys and run out of my door. I hastily shove the instructions and my purse into my bag and throw it over my shoulder, before hurrying down the street, hailing a cab as I go. When I finally manage to find one, I jump in and practically bark the address at the poor cabby, before we speed off down the crowded roads.

After a rather bumpy and quite frankly terrifying ride, I pay the driver and leap from the taxi, my bag swinging wildly round my back. Straightening myself up, I make my way to where Lestrade is standing talking to one of the many officers patrolling the area. He looks up as I approach, and steps away from the cop and under the blue tape.

"Ah, Miss Walters, Sherlock told me you'd be coming."

"Please, it's just Heather," I tell him, with a small smile, "Sherlock said he was working on the case?"

"Yes, there's been another murder," He explains gravely, "Just a few blocks down. I'll take you there now."

He exchanges a couple more words with the officer, before starting off down the road. Unlike Sherlock, I notice, Lestrade walks at quite a slow casual pace and it makes a pleasant change not having to keep up with my neighbour's brisk stride. As we stroll down the street, the scenery around us begins to change. The dilapidated buildings soon turn into pristine apartments and Tudor homes. Beneath my feet, the pavement becomes smooth and clean, rather than cracked and dirty. Above us, the sun hangs lazily in the sky, casting a golden midday glow. Suddenly, I realise I haven't actually eaten yet, and to my utter embarrassment, my stomach rumbles in agreement. Lestrade however, doesn't seem to notice this, as he ambles along beside me, informing me of the history of the places around me. I almost sigh in relief and nod absently as he finishes his history lecture and falls silent. We continue down the road a little more, before I spot a line of blue tape and flashing sapphire lights ahead. As we approach, I quicken my pace in the slightest, trying to see what's happened.

Lestrade leads me under the police tape and past the many officers surrounding the area, before I really start to take in my surroundings. The house we stand in front of is one of the many historic buildings, scattered around the street. Its grand wooden door, once an emerald green, is opened wide, letting the warming sunlight pour into the front hall. The paint is all but gone now, nothing but a dull green tint. Lestrade leads me inside, and I catch the scent of old wood, but there's a thick stench that overpowers all other smells.

The smell of death.

I wrinkle my nose in disgust, but continue through the front hall. This time, rather than tuning into the living room, we head upstairs and come to rest in the doorway of a rather minimalistic bedroom. After all the grandeur of the first floor, this room comes a quite a shock, it's unexpected even.

As I take in the bare white room and blue clad figures scurrying in and out around me, I notice a dark silhouette outlined in the bright, open room.

_Sherlock._

"I see you've arrived," He states bluntly.

_I see we're back_, I think to myself,_ I knew the kindness wouldn't last_.

Once again, it's as if I can see each cog in his brain whir as he tries to crack the case. I peer past him at the scene and step forward. It's just as gory as last time, however, neater this time, as if the murderer took extra care.

Straight away, I look over the position of the body. It's similar to last time, but I see the thick line of blood drawn round the victim's waist, like a belt.

_Orion's belt_, I think to myself, and see another line of blood leading up from the body's hand, like a spear.

"Well?" Lestrade asks, and Sherlock relates something about a knife, patterned with runes, before falling silent after seeing my smug grin. Lestrade cocks an eyebrow and I grin.

"He is clearly positioned like Orion, you know, the constellation. The line of blood at his waist could be a belt. You're murderer may have something to do with that. Look for a fortune teller, a psychic, Mystic Meg perhaps. They're somewhere along those lines."

Lestrade nods briefly, before relating to an officer stood just outside the door. He returns moments later, beaming.

"Could you tell us more?" He asks.

"I've only just begun."

**A/N:**

**Hey, it's me again! Sorry once again for the slow update, I'll try and be quicker next time. Oh and what do you guys think of the news (I'm talking about the big engagement of course!). Tell me in your review as well as what you thought! **

**Thanks **

**Sphinxy**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N**

**Hey loyal readers!**

**Here's the next chapter as promised, thanks to HermioneWP who commented last, and Heathlock may be a thing, I'm not sure yet.**

**Anywhoo...**

**Enjoy! **

**Sphinxy**

Chapter 5

Sherlock strides in stormy silence beside me as we make our way back to Baker Street. I don't hear a peep from him, just several glowers and puzzled looks thrown my way. I almost grin at his confusion, and I don't blame him for it. No normal person, no scratch that, not even the great _Sherlock Holmes_ could crack a case in a total of 2 murders and 3 days, it's quite a record. But then again, there's more to me than he could ever guess, no amount of assessing could even touch on it all.

The silence itself is almost deafening, and nothing is heard save the harsh thud of heavy footfalls and the shrill clack of my heels on the hard concrete. Few people are around today, those who are wander aimlessly by on the other side of the road; it's as if Sherlock and I are in our own personal world of piercing silence. Nothing else can enter our personal space filled with uncomfortable quiet, and I want to break it so bad, to shatter it to a thousand pieces, but I just can't bring myself to do it; I'll only be hushed to silence once more.

As we continue down the path, various pubs, buildings and even parks float by, lost in a blur of time, and Sherlock's quick stride.

Suddenly, he stops.

"I still don't get it," He tells me, his gaze penetrating mine with a furious desperation to read me, "How do you do it?"

I smile, "That's for me to know, and you to find out."

"Yes, you keep saying that," He states, "But this time I want an answer."

"I know I've said that before," I remind him, then a stubborn look crosses my face, "And no. You're not getting one. Why do you want to know anyway? Why do I interest you so much?"

"And yet you don't know," He murmurs, before shaking his head and looking away. Without another word, he picks up his pace where he left off and continues to let the cogs in his brain whir. I know exactly what he was referring to, but I wasn't going to let him win that easily. We pass a few more houses before I realise we're nearly back at Bakers street. That's when I realise I was supposed to be meeting the important publisher, in about twenty minutes.

"Oh my God!" I exclaim suddenly, seeing Sherlock raise his eyebrows, "I'm going to be late!"

I quicken my pace, leaving the darkly clad detective in the dust. Just as I anticipated, he's by my side moments later. Practically running, I hurry to my front door, fumbling in my bag for my keys. Sherlock however, is still stood behind me, almost expectantly. I turn to face him.

"What's the rush?" He asks; his demeanour almost intimidating.

Almost.

"Well, seeming as you interrupted my last appointment, I've had to reschedule it to around twenty-seven minutes from now," I explain, rather frustrated that he's holding me up.

"What appointment?" He asks again, then I realise, he's not holding me up. I could simply turn my back on him, just as he does to everyone else. So I do. I simply wink, before opening my door and practically slamming it shut behind me. I hear a muffled chuckle, before receding footsteps ricochet in my ears. I sigh, before rushing to my bedroom to change. I quickly pick some slightly more formal clothing from my wardrobe, a plain white blouse with a ruffled neckline and sleek black trousers. After fixing my hair into a loose bun, two curled bangs at the side of my face, I apply a little simple sophisticated make-up and head out the door, grabbing my black leather satchel filled with my novels and poems as I go. Quickly locking up, I swing my bag onto my shoulder and start down the street, but not before I realise there's a brown envelope on my door mat. I swiftly open the door again, and pick up the envelope. Opening it, I see there's two twenty pound notes inside and a handwritten note. I gaze at it quizzically, before reading it.

It reads:

_I apologise for delaying you_

_Twice_

_Here's the money for a cab as my apologies_

_SH_

I have to read the note twice to make sure it's not a trap. When I'm sure it's genuine, I check the money. It too is real, and I can't help but stand there, mouth agape. This must have been Johns doing, but then again, Sherlock said he hadn't heard from John since he'd left. I must admit it's a nice surprise, even if it's probably a set-up, in fact, he's probably trying to get close to me so I'll spill all my secrets. Well, I can promise you now Sherlock Holmes, that is not going to happen. Either way, I tuck the envelope, note still enclosed in it, in my bag. Then I half run down the street, hailing a cab as I go. Soon, I'm sitting in the back seat of a black cab, instructing the driver on where to go. Luckily, the traffic appears to be in my favour as we pull up to the building just in time. I pay the cabby with a single twenty pound note and he hands over the correct change. Quickly thanking him, I hurry into the building before following the receptionist's directions to the publisher's office. When I'm called in after tapping quietly on the door, I seat myself in front of the desk, opposite a tall blonde haired man.

Chris Brooke was always a tidy man, his desk arranged carefully, until it was spotless and shining. His attire, as always, was smart and sophisticated, his hair slicked back with a little dry wax. His suit jacket was hung on the coat hanger in the corner of the room, his crisp white shirt glaringly bright without a single crease or crumple. He peered up from his array of papers, glasses balanced on the end of his nose. His electric blue eyes scan my face briefly, before he removes his spectacles and sits back on his chair with a sigh.

"Ah, Miss Walters," He says, his gaze piercing, "You're here at last I see."

"Yes. Sorry about last time," I apologise, "Something came up."

"I see. Now, about your book, I think it's quite excellent. Very impressive actually," He tells me, his facial expression unchanged, "I couldn't put it down. I'd be more than happy to have it published and on the shelves by next week if you're willing. Now, of course there's some paperwork to go through, but I think I'll leave that with you to get done by Friday, that way we can start printing. As for minor details like the cover, we've got a professional artist coming in tomorrow if you would care to join us. I'm sure they'll come up with something fitting."

"Really?" I ask, my face as impassive as his, "That's wonderful news, and I'm sure tomorrow will be fine. Is there anything else you need to discuss with me Mr Brooke?"

"No, I think that just about covers it," He tells me and I simply nod, "I'll see you around three o'clock tomorrow, not a minute later."

"Of course," I assure him, before I thank him once more and leave the office after handing him some more notes and a couple pages of poetry that he asked for.

After a speedy cab journey back to Bakers Street, I hurry inside before finding a sheet of paper and an envelope. I scribble down a quick note before putting it and the last of the money in the envelope. Then I hurry next door and post it through the letter box. I hear it drop with a chink of metal on metal, before soft footsteps approach. I watch through the misted glass as a dark figure appears, slowly getting closer. The shadow becomes shorter, as if bending down, then the chink of metal I heard once more. I hear the sound of tearing paper, then a quieted chuckle.

He obviously read my note.

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_I was 12_

**A/N**

**Hi again,**

**So, what did you think? Have I enthralled you yet? Do you want to find out more? Let me know with a review, and I'll be sure to try and update soon, I promise! **

**I hope you enjoyed the chapter! **

**Sphinxy**


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